


The supreme vice

by WahlBuilder



Category: The Technomancer (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Noir, M/M, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 15:03:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17082566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WahlBuilder/pseuds/WahlBuilder
Summary: Viktor is trying to finish reports, but there is a disturbance to his afternoon.





	The supreme vice

The station was quiet, thankfully, the only sounds the buzzing of the lamp on Viktor’s desk and the odd rush of automobile outside. Now and again distant laughter or caroling pierced the quiet, but the afternoon was biting cold — the sort of dry, snowless cold that got under all layers of clothing. Viktor wanted a smoke, but abstained from it.

He wanted to finish the reports — even though the prospect of going back to his apartment wasn’t particularly enticing. His pen stopped when he remembered that he didn’t have any bread, back there. It was impossible to think of his apartment as home: he went there to sleep, and even then only several times a week. His office had a decent enough couch. He knew some of his subordinates pitied him, and others thought it yet another proof that he was less than other people. But when emergencies happened (and they happened often), he was the first to arrive and take charge.

He continued writing.

He fell into a blurry, suspended state, with his hand working independently from his thoughts — when sounds pulled him out. He couldn’t concentrate immediately — but then his mind categorized the sound as not the usual part of winter afternoon — but a familiar part of being at the station.

His pen stopped again as he contemplated whether to go down or not. The men would sort it out themselves — but then, he could do it, too, show them that they were not the only ones working (though unlike them he would rather be working than go to his dwelling). He put down his pen and got up, checked that his jacket was buttoned properly and his tie knot was neat.

He locked his office — and spotted Jeffrey, shoulders heavy, his breathing a cloud puffing out. “Detective,” Viktor called. “What is going on?”

Jeffrey turned to him and at first his eyes looked right through Viktor, something distant about his gaze. Then he focused and grinned and saluted. “Sir! A lucky catch, sir. A member of the Vory, and if the tip we got is right, he’s quite high in the hierarchy.”

Viktor doubted it. The Vory seniors — and even the rank and file — were cautious, and throughout the past few years — all the time since Viktor became the colonel here — arrests had only been of those Vory whom, Viktor suspected, the organization wanted to punish or didn’t want at all. The Vory were not only cautious, but actively protected each other.

However, everyone makes mistakes.

“Let us look at the man,” Viktor said, but the change in Jeffrey’s face, a tension about his eyes and the tightening of his mouth, made Viktor pause and raise a brow. “Is something wrong, Detective?”

“No. Er… No, sir, no.”

They walked to the holding cell, sounds of discord growing louder.

The sight that met Viktor in the cell was astonishing.

Viktor’s men were hardened by the necessity to survive on the streets and by their wartime experience — but they were certainly having problems at keeping a stocky man, much shorter than them, still. The man, the small light slipping off the sweat-glistening shaved head, had a bruise on his cheekbone, growing purple, and Viktor made a mental note to find out who was responsible for that damage — but, he noticed, Detective Michaels had blood dribbling down his chin, and Detective Gabriels was favoring his right side. Cracked ribs, Viktor surmised.

The detained man’s eyes — a murky, strange color, a light reddish yellow, the color of champagne just mixed with red wine but not stirred properly— Viktor noted the color when, for a few moments, the man locked eyes with him. His cuffed hands were balled into fists.

Viktor kept his face impassive.

Michaels wiped his chin on the sleeves of his jacket and yanked the man by the shoulder. “Why aren’t you in the church, huh, or at home, celebrating Christmas like the good American you are trying to be?”

A moment’s tension that the two detectives didn’t notice — and the man broke the handcuff chain. It stunned the two detectives — but the man was already moving. He drew an elbow into Michaels’s stomach. “I am Jewish, you piece of fuck!”

Viktor leaned with his back to the wall, mind floating away on the sounds of fight — or rather, a beating — and grunts of pain and groans cut short. He took his cigarette case out of his jacket, fingers running over engraving _(“By love and admiration. — A to V”)_ , picked out a cigarette, though didn’t light it, rolled it between his fingers. Thinking.

Then, when sounds stopped — except for labored breathing — he put the cigarette back into the case, snapped it shut, put it away into his jacket. He went to the softly groaning Gabriels, crouched, picked the keys from his belt.

The man was looking at him from under his brow, pupils so wide it looked like ink poured into the champagne-and-red-wine. Viktor raised his brow again, and the man held up his hands. Viktor opened and removed the broken cuffs. The wrists under them were raw, but Viktor refrained from rubbing the irritated skin. Instead, he simply turned his back, walking to the door. “I apologize for detaining you, sir. The detectives will be punished, I assure you.” He glanced over his shoulder, “ _Gut Shabbes_.”

The man’s face went slack, but Viktor quickly walked out.

Jeffrey shook himself, detaching from the wall, and frowned. “Colonel, what…”

Viktor brushed past him, dropping the broken cuffs into his hands. “Michaels and Gabriels are to stay until their heads clear.”

“But—”

“They had no right to detain — and to cuff — an honest citizen like that.”

“But, Colone—”

He stopped, Jeffrey swaying as he tried not to run into him. “Wrongful detainment, Detective,” Viktor said to him.

The boy gave him a long look, blinked, then nodded. “Right, sir. Understood.”

Viktor didn’t nod back. It was over, and he had a couple of reports to finish and papers to sign. He went back to his office, sat by the desk, picked his pen…

Steps hurried close. It was not Jeffrey’s steps, but, nonetheless, they were familiar — those steps he could pick out anywhere.

He closed his eyes.

The door opened. “Fuck this, Vik. Come on, we’re going home.”

He sighed, looked down. “I have things to finish.”

“Don’t give me this shit, Vitya,” Anton growled.

Viktor looked up just in time to see Anton picking his coat off the rack. Anton tilted up his chin. “Get up. It’s sunset soon. We have the dinner ready and everything. And send that boy of yours home, too.”

“He’s not mine.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Someone has to stay overnight.”

“Those two I left in the cell are staying all right. Up, up, up!” Anton was standing by his desk, holding the coat open.

Viktor sighed again, got up, and let himself be dressed, then he picked his hat. “You are impossible, Tosha,” he murmured. And when Anton opened his mouth, no doubt preparing a witty rebuke, Viktor pressed a soft kiss to his bruised cheekbone.


End file.
